


reminiscing.

by autisticallisonreynolds



Series: the 1960s and 1970s were a real bad time to be living in violet county. [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, an irl serial killer gets mentioned briefly at one point so. there's that., casual misogyny/dehumanization, dw nothing Graphic happens; these tags are more of a precaution than anything, implied murder/sexual assault/general violence, implied pedophilia (towards teenagers), towards women specifically, uhhh what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26265034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autisticallisonreynolds/pseuds/autisticallisonreynolds
Summary: it's a warm august night in 1977, and a bored as all hell randall kundert finds himself stuck on his latest girl's journal entry.
Series: the 1960s and 1970s were a real bad time to be living in violet county. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916473
Kudos: 2





	reminiscing.

**Author's Note:**

> all triggers i can think of are noted in the tags, please heed them. the last thing i want is for someone to be hurt by something i've made. please let me know if there's something else i need to put in that i've missed.
> 
> alt title: randall kundert is a sick fuck and i am Very Sorry for subjecting you all to him.

august 11, 1977. somewhere in upstate new york.

it’s half past one am.

parked on the side of the road, randall kundert finds himself sitting on the hood of his car, his boots placed neatly beside him as to avoid scuffing the paint-job (he was quite vain about that car), smoking a cigarette. the only lights are the headlights of his car, shining up towards the billboard he’s currently found himself lost in; the only sound being the muffled tunes coming from the car radio inside. he’s probably not far from the nearest motel, but it’s late and really, who’s actually gonna find him here? hell, who’s actually gonna care?

he feels at home here.

he's been here for about twenty minutes now, trying to finish the entry for his latest girl. trial and error had taught randall that it was best to start writing as soon as possible. but he just couldn't keep himself focused long enough.

he has all the basics down

( _her name was cora jackson she had golden blonde hair in a loose braid she wore a brown sweater and a loooong skirt that went down to her flats her car was broken down she wanted to call her mom she cried and cried and cried and_ )

but fuck, man, it gets boring just writing the same shit over and over and over again. with a few treasured exceptions, of course.

he's so bored that his focus goes from the page before him to his right jacket sleeve. a blood stain, right to the edge of the cuff. randall frowns. damn it, he likes this jacket. it took him forever to replace the last one, and having to explain to ava why he had to get rid of it Right Now wasn't easy either. the jacket's dark brown, maybe that'll be good enough to hide it? maybe if he just scrubs hard enough---

it's then that randall hears what sounds like a slightly muffled breaking news report coming from the car radio.

_“...the new york city police department have announced tonight that they have in their custody the man they believe to be the .44 killer, more commonly known as the son of sam. david berkowitz, age 24, was captured outside his apartment building in nearby yonkers...”_

_huh_. and here randall thought they were never going to catch that guy. probably just turned himself in or something.

“well, shit.”

maybe he should be worried. that maniac running around

( _what was his name, daniel? derek? randall had forgotten already. he’d never been good with names, unless it was one of his girls._ )

was the only thing that got ava to shut the hell up about him being out until around 3:30 am that last night in nyc. it was less than two weeks ago, and randall honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she was still pissed about it. probably thought he was cheating on her or some shit like that.

( _god he hoped it was just something like that please please please don’t let ava find out ever please_ )

not that it matters, really. it's not like anyone would realistically suspect him.

natalie lipschitz doesn't remember jackshit about the night of july 31. he’d done a hell of a number on that girl (and it serves her right for being out while a maniac was running around), it’d be a shock if she ever remembered.

besides, he’s stopped paying attention to the car radio anyway.

someone else is on his mind right now. 

seventeen year old judith dempsey stares down at him in gray-scale from the billboard.

missing since 10/31/1976.

( _he left her in that run-down house deep in the woods of violet county, hidden beneath the floorboards._ )

have you seen her?

( _she had those same dimples that even now just drove him wild, that same pale soft hair, those same sharp cheekbones._ )

call 1-555-577-8372 if you have any information.

( _her eyes once brown and lively, now just as blank and gray as the ones on the billboard._ )

please help us bring her home.

( _they still haven't found her._ )

the whole thing’s kinda funny. it’s been almost a year, and here patricia dempsey was, _still_ looking for her daughter. man, some people just never give up, do they?

( _stupid bitch._ )

she was his first in violet county. the first one he actually knew beforehand. she’d been sallie’s math tutor. she didn’t come out of her room for two days straight after judith went missing (well, according to their mother, at least. he didn't really pay attention to sallie's emotional wellbeing all that much.)

he almost feels guilty for a moment.

almost.

as he gazes upon her, forever frozen in time, randall finds himself drawn to the glow of the headlights—the way they illuminate her face, like a halo, like she were an angel in a stained glass window. it was almost like a scene from a movie. it was beautiful, even. 

( _she was one of his favorite girls._ )

his hands tremble, pulse quickens as he remembers that november night. she’d kicked and screamed and bit and lost quite a few teeth because of it.

( _he still has some of them. and her class ring._ ) 

he can swear he sees accusation upon her portrait. can swear he hears her

( _and rosemarie loomis and loralei sharpe and rickie lenz and marnie zito and genette boyd and thelma cunningham and jennifer white and cinda lou matheson and and and_ )

curse his name in the silence of the night.

_scream all you want, girls. no one could hear you then, no one will hear you now._

with that, randall pulls his boots back on, slides off the hood, and climbs into the driver's seat. he checks his watch: 2:15 am. ava's probably pissed at him for being out so late (he wouldn't be surprised if she's locked the door by now), and he's too far from annesville, anyways. so, motel it is, then. his fingers are just about to turn the key in the ignition when he pauses.

doesn’t patricia dempsey have another daughter?

a grin creeps.

yes. _yes_ , she _does_. judith’s younger sister. she’s one of sallie’s classmates.

arlene dempsey.

now, wouldn’t it be funny to see patricia dempsey’s face---to see her drop to her knees, or hell, even _scream---_ when she finds out she’s lost not one, but both of her children? to the same man, no less.

why, if he could get away with _that..._

randall kundert bites his lip with excitement as he starts the car, his green eyes alight with something gleeful and terrible.

he glances in the rear-view mirror, to the backseat. cora jackson’s clothes are sealed in a box on the passenger's side. her cross necklace is in his pocket. he still hasn’t finished her entry.

he’s _far_ from done yet.

**Author's Note:**

> ngl chief this wasn't fun to write


End file.
